


Burning

by the_space_between1013



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Caryl, Caryl needs more SMUT!, F/M, Nine Lives Pleasure and Pain Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9174913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_space_between1013/pseuds/the_space_between1013
Summary: Daryl comes back from a run with Aaron, back shredded from a run-in with walkers and survivors alike. While Carol stitches him up, he thinks about the differences in touch. Carol's and his father's. Submitted incredibly late for the Pleasure and Pain Challenge.





	

Burning. Burning up and down his back was all he could feel. From a point just below his left shoulder blade down the middle of his back diagonally. Burned like a bitch. What the hell had he been thinking? He hadn’t. Just hauled ass across the school and through the fence with the too-small opening. Why the  _hell_ hadn’t he cut the damned thing just a bit higher up? He was fuckin’ payin’ for it now, he cursed to himself.

“Daryl, we should head over to the clinic and get that checked out,” Aaron interrupted his internal tirade, hitching the backpack and duffle full of supplies over his right shoulder, shifting the weight a bit. They’d just gotten back from a run and scouting trip. Running from both walkers and a small group of survivors, they’d not been able to get away clean and he’d gotten snagged on that damned fence. They had barely gotten out of there with their lives, though Eric didn’t need to know that. Neither did Carol, he mused.

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll get someone to look at it later,” Daryl replied.

“Sure?” he asked, eyebrow rising and head cocking slightly to the right.

“Yeah, I’m good. Get that stuff to Supplies and find Eric. Guy’s probably crawling the walls missing you,” Daryl mumbled a bit, grabbing a firmer hand on his bow and moving toward home. Home. What an odd concept. Home. He hadn’t had a home in so very long. “See ya later.”

Daryl tried not to hunch over and kept his back as straight as possible as he walked to the house he, Carol, Rick, Michonne, Carl, Maggie and Glenn shared. It was big enough that pretty much each of them could have their own room, but since they’d moved into Alexandria, they’d doubled up. He and Carol shared a room, Michonne had taken the one next to Rick, Carl, and Judith, and Maggie and Glenn had claimed the basement floor. He hadn’t felt comfortable quite yet letting her out of his sight and even though her room would be on the other side of the bathroom the two bedrooms shared, he wanted her close. Why forty feet away wasn’t close enough, he wouldn’t explore. So he’d convinced her to crash in his room, which had two full beds. It had taken him a few weeks to get used to her not being right at his side, but he supposed six feet was close enough he couldn’t bitch. Eventually he might be okay with her being farther away or she might want her own space, but it was clear by the way she’d not put up a fight that she had needed to be close as much as he did.

Within minutes he was walking in slowly, still cautious even after months of being in the safe zone. “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone home?”

Silence.

Sighing, he dropped a bag with some toys for Judy in the living room, which was already littered with toys and other signs of the girl, and trekked upstairs. The room they shared was the last at the end of the hall, her bedroom being the second to last. He’d wanted it that way, preferring to have only one entrance toward the room and therefore if there was a problem he would have a bottleneck situation. He’d also picked the room with the largest window for the same reason: options. But if she eventually wanted her own room, he’d badger her into switching with him. No way anyone would get to her without coming through him first.

Letting himself in, Daryl carefully set his bow down on the dresser and headed into the attached bathroom. Now  _that_  was something he had missed on the hard road, a real bathroom with shower and hot water. He wasn’t one for luxuries (he’d grown up poor, so damned poor the bathroom had been outside the shack he’d called home for the first 14 years of his life) but the shower had been inside and usually had hot water (when his pa remembered to pay the damn bill).  Carefully, he tugged the shredded shirt off his right shoulder. He could feel the pull of the fabric against the now-dried and crusted blood across his back. Fuck this was going to hurt! Why the hell had he allowed Carol to wash his vest while he took off with Aaron this morning? That vinyl shit substitute hadn’t protected his skin one damned bit.

“You decent?” a voice called from beyond the door and Daryl nearly jumped out of his skin, turning immediately toward the voice and starting up a fresh round of throbbing in his back from the sharp movement.

“Not for long,” he grumbled, struggling with his crusted shirt. “Christ! Taught you a little too well if you get me to jump.” He’d taught her to track, to shoot, and when to be silent. Deadly so.

Popping around the corner, Carol came into view, a smirk on her face at first, setting a box down on the dresser table just outside the bathroom, and then her eyes narrowed, smile disappearing. “That needs to come off. Now.”

“Don’t it look like I’m tryin’?” he sniped. His back hurt like a bitch and she wanted to start bossing him around? Wasn’t she supposed to be all concerned he was hurt? “B’sides, how’d you know? Aaron stopped you.” He answered his own question without a beat and his lips twisted. He didn’t need a babysitter.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” she teased lightly, moving in further, crowding the already tight space. “Turn and I’ll give you a hand. Then we can get your back looked at. Aaron said it might need stitches.”

“See if I do him favors anytime soon,” Daryl muttered, a little put out by Aaron having outed him. He caught Carol’s side glance and conceded, turning just enough that she could get her hand around his shirt and tug gently down his arm, carefully pulling and separating the shirt from the crusted blood on his back. Even so, he stifled a groan and winced.

“Definitely going to need stitches. And a tetanus shot. Glad I badgered Deanna about it,” Carol said quietly, and he could hear the concern in her voice. To others, she might’ve sounded nonchalant, bored even, but he could tell. He knew she was worried. Five years of friendship. He knew her.

One last tug and the ruined garment was off and puddled on the floor. Pulling a full needle from her pocket, Carol uncapped it and quickly injected his upper am before removing a washcloth from under the sink and rinsing it in soapy water she set up. “I can do that,” he said quietly, a bit self-conscious. Carol hadn’t seen his naked back in a few years, since that time Andrea, the dumbass, had almost taken him out.

“Don’t fight me on this, you know you can’t reach,” Carol disagreed, practical as always.

Her hands were gentle as they cleaned, getting the debris, old and crusted blood, dark with age, off the expanse of his back, moving ever closer to the ragged edges of the cut that spanned across the muscled plane. A few times he couldn’t help but jerk in reflex at the pain, and he heard a few muttered “sorry’s.”

“t’s ok,” he grumbled.

“Almost done,” Carol murmured, hands feathering over him, the light stroke of the washcloth, warm and wet, creating shivers down his spine. Daryl had to steal himself against the warmth and her hands, soft and tender. It hadn’t happened all at once; it wasn’t that he felt nothing and then woke up one day and things were different. It had been gradual, slow, creeping under his skin quietly over the last few years. His feelings for her, about Carol, had changed. Deepened. She was…a friend. His best friend. And he felt something for her he’d not yet been able to put a name to, but whatever it was…it was deep, abiding, unwavering. He trusted her like he trusted no one else.

Which was why, when she told him to move over to the bed and sit down so she could stitch him up, he did. He didn’t even grumble. Much. Carol was behind him and his back was bare. Exposed. There was silence as she prepared to stitch him up and his back itched, but not because just anyone was behind him, but because  _she_ was. Carol was different. He felt at once comfortable and itchy around her, but he’d never really been able to put his finger on why. The awareness of her had been constant, almost from the start, but it had gone from an almost painful alertness to just...there. He just always knew where she was and it comforted him on a deep level, but when she was near him, his body fought. At once he wanted to get away and crawl closer. Run away and also be right next to her, in her space. The way she seemed to always be in his, even when she wasn’t there. Now was no different. If he was honest with himself, the conflicting feelings had grown in him since they’d joined Alexandria.

Cool fingers lightly grazed his back, interrupting his thoughts, and he tensed immediately. “Relax or this is going to hurt more than it has to. I’ll try to be gentle,” she murmured.

_This is going to hurt more than it has to if you don’t stop your damn pussy ass from movin’ ‘round._

Daryl flinched inside at the clear voice he could hear, his father’s. “Sorry,” Carol murmured softly, and stroked around the top of his gash. Daryl had to forcibly prevent himself from arching closer. She’d completely misread his reaction. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t ever about her. It was about  _him._ He hadn’t thought of his father in years, the last time being when Merle had confronted him in the woods and exposed his back, his scars. They were thick, harsh reminders of a life he’d run from as quickly as he could, the second he’d been old enough to. It was the reason he’d not graduated high school. He’d left that dilapidated shack he’d lived in for the first 14 years of his life and taken off. He’d lived in the woods for a few weeks when he was a kid, until social services found his ass and placed him in foster care. From which he’d bolted when he’d seen the mean look in the old man’s eyes behind the kind smile of the social worker.

But until that time, he’d put up with beatings any time his old man got drunk, which was damned near every night, and managed to get his ass home instead of sleeping it off at the shitty bar in town.

His thoughts were interrupted once again by the prick and hot burn of the needle entering his flesh. Painkillers were a hot commodity around Alexandria and they couldn’t afford to waste them or analgesics on something as trivial as a scratch. “You sure you don’t want anything for the pain?” she asked quietly and damned if she didn’t read his mind.

“No,” he replied gruffly and consciously relaxed the muscles in his back so she could continue stitching. Cool hands worked quickly and efficiently, but gently. Carefully. So completely different than the pain his pa had inflicted so many times as a young’un. 

Long moments passed, and Daryl was achingly aware of every movement of her hands against his skin. He barely felt the pinpricks of the needle, the pull of the thread suturing flesh together. Instead, every part of him was aware of  _her._ The cool feel of her hands against his hot skin, the gentle way she tried to limit the pain, even knowing it likely wasn’t helping. Every sense was alive and he could feel the rustle of the air around his back as she worked, the breeze coming in from the cracked window across the room, smell the clean scent of her, light and refreshing, and he was reminded of how radically different her touch was from  _his._

His pa had been a mean bastard, angry at his wife and the world, for birthing two bastards that he contended to his dying day weren’t his and being forced to ‘pay up’ for the little fuckers, as he’d called them for years. And when he got drunk and mean, he got cruel and beat Merle with that black leather belt of his, with the large metal buckle. And even before Merle had taken off, his pa had taken his rage out on the youngest bastard. He’d barely been eight at the time. The first time.

It wasn’t until years later that he realized that parents didn’t do that to their kids. Didn’t hit and hit and hit until they bled or until they bruised so bad even a t-shirt over the marks would  _hurt._ He’d learned that there were good parents who loved their kids and wanted the best for them. And then he’d met Carol. And Sophia. And after Ed had died, he’d had an up-close and intimate view of what a parent-child relationship was like. The way Carol had absently stroked Sophia’s hair, a gentle brush of her hand against the young girl’s shoulder, feathering her bangs from her eyes, the love in them, so pure, so innocent. Perfect. Unending. Eternal.

“Lay down on the bed and I’ll clean off your back again. Stitching opened up some of the cuts,” she murmured, and absently caressed his shoulder. Daryl had to stop himself from tensing up at the casual touch. She occasionally did that, touched him as if it was nothing, as if it was an everyday occurrence, as if she had the  _right_ and he was conflicted. A part of him wanted her to stop, to never, ever touch him again, and another part…that secret part of him inside…that part of him wanted her to  _never_  stop, wanted to lean in and soak up the tenderness she showed him. God knew he’d received so little of it in his life until now.

He grunted in acknowledgment and carefully laid down on his belly. He wasn’t one for exposing his weaknesses, but it was Carol and she was different. Trust had never come easy with him. Not with his past. But Carol had snuck under his defenses, slowly, quietly, until she was dug deep inside. He’d not realized it at first, but when he’d become aware of it, when she’d looked at him with hope and desperation in her eyes that he’d find her little girl, he’d resisted. Resisted with everything in him _._ She’d laid herself bare when Sophia went missing and the trust in him…no one had ever trusted him before that. The rest of the group had followed soon thereafter, but she’d been the first. There was something about this woman that just got him. Right in the gut. He couldn’t explain it if his life depended on it, but she was different than anyone he’d ever met. A quiet strength that spoke to him deeply. Without words, she spoke and placed her unconditional trust in him. In turn, he’d learned to trust her as well over the years. Such that when she asked him to lie down and expose himself physically, he did so. Because he trusted her to do the one thing his pa hadn’t. To not hurt him.

Smooth glides of a damp washcloth, slightly cold from the water, stroking down and removing the blood and sweat that had accumulated during the suturing. Only that separated his skin from her hand and the intimate caress of naked skin. He had to stifle a moan into his arm and the bedding as he felt his stomach clench down low. What the hell? He’d not thought of her like  _that_ ever.

_Liar._

Fleeting thoughts didn’t count. Neither did the occasional glance over her form. He’d never had the  _time_ to do more than glance.

A rivulet of cool water traversed his back and pooled in the indentation above his ass. He felt her move, shift over him, settle herself back in, and that fucking washcloth slowly skimmed his back to soak up that stray drop of water. More brushes of that damned washcloth and then he sensed, rather than felt,  _it._ A soft caress, barely there, so light he thought he imagined it, against his shoulder and he instinctively tensed, every muscle on alert. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice near his ear, and he could hear the husky intonation and feel her damp breath against the outer curve, causing him to shiver involuntarily. It  _did things_ to him, down low, made everything tight and hard and God damn it, he sure as hell had the  _time_ now.

Thought wasn’t a part of his actions. He didn’t think. He just  _did._ A smooth, swift push of his body up with his arms and twist of his torso had him unexpectedly facing her, almost bumping heads, and suddenly, he was sitting up and she was scrambling back quickly, and her legs were practically bracing his, her face inches from his own. And Daryl had an impulse to close those few inches and kiss her, to taste what he’d wondered about off and on in the darkest nights, when he felt that part of him that hungered for her, never really having given the chance to satisfy that need, rise up, long buried, and he  _ached._ For the touch of her lips, the whisper of her breath against his, the brush of her hands against his skin, so soft and sweet and gentle. He’d had such little tenderness in his life it was like a craving now and a part of him  _knew, fucking knew_  he would get it from her.

It had been there in those timeless moments when they’d hugged, so tight, so hard, not a breath between them, the relief and sheer joy to see each other, in those moments after Terminus. With the world crashing down around him, he’d seen her and thought hadn’t entered into his mind. He’d reacted, with his gut, with his heart, with his soul.

That same knowing was present now. Looking into her eyes, he could see the awareness there, of him, of her, of them. Now. Here. It had been there a few times over the years, notably at the prison, on top of that bus after he’d massaged her shoulder, and again when he’d tried to be the hero and offered to carry her water. Then it had been light-hearted, teasing, knowing, but comfortable in the knowing, in that knowledge that maybe, eventually, something would occur, but it was ok right now that it didn’t.

He couldn’t say the same at this moment. It felt…like he couldn’t breathe. He just needed a kiss, one brush of her lips against his, then he’d feel like the world was aright and the sky was blue. She was his touchstone and he needed her at that moment more than he needed air. A small sound escaped and he saw her react to it, to the desperation in the utterance, her eyes going hazy, heavy, focusing on his lips, mouth lax, and ever so slightly, she leaned in. Barely perceptible, but concentrated on her that he was, Daryl saw it. And took the invitation she blatantly issued.

Lips met, brushed tentatively and he instinctively opened his mouth, allowing her in. A groan issued from his throat and a shiver worked its way up his spine. Sweet. She tasted sweet, like suckers when he was a kid. Always did love those damned things. Soft and hot and wet was what raced through his mind. He tangled his tongue with hers, brushed and stroked and slid and the feel of what they were doing made things low down tighten and pull. He felt her pull back a moment, gasping a breath, before she dived back in to him, fingers of one hand lacing through his hair, pulling lightly, nails scratching hotly against his scalp.

Another tremor took him at that sensation. He’d never realized his head could be an erogenous zone. Diving into her was like jumping into the ocean on a hot summer day, clean and fresh and vibrant. They kissed and kissed, barely coming up for air, and for a moment, teeth clinked awkwardly and he felt her laugh into his mouth. He chuckled in response before pulling away to look into her blue eyes, the same and yet different, sucking in a breath and biting his lip, even now just a little bit insecure.

“That’s my job,” she murmured and teasingly swiped at his lower lip, gently pulling it from between his teeth and tugging with hers. A hard tug from his gut had Daryl cupping her face and swiftly kissing her anew, cupping her cheek to hold her to him even as he began to press her back to the bed, untangling their lower limbs to settle between her legs, the juncture of her thighs cradling his erection. Carol reached up and grasped his shoulder where it curved into his neck. She moaned in pleasure as he groaned in pain, attempting to stifle the sound through shards of glass racing down his spine. But she heard and pulled back sharply, her hazy eyes clearing somewhat. “You’re hurt,” she murmured, voice pitched low, “we should stop.”

“I don’ wanna,” Daryl replied, dipping down to try to kiss her again.

“You’re hurt and this can wait. I can wait.” Carol pressed a hand to his chest in protest. Worry coated her voice. He knew she didn’t want to hurt him. Never did.

“If I can’t…doesn’t mean you can’t,” he mumbled and ducked his head to suck at her neck, tongue swirling round and round, Carol’s eyes rolled back, and he thought about other places his tongue could swirl round and round.

Daryl took her silence for acquiescence and began to press nibbling kisses down her neck and toward her upper chest, pushing aside the buttoned down shirt, snaking his tongue beneath the fabric as his fumbling fingers worked the small plastic. But he underestimated just how injured he was when his right arm gave out beneath him and he almost fell against Carol.

It snapped her out of the trance his kisses had placed her in. “No, we need to stop. Right now,” she said. He watched as she shook her head to clear it, the hazy look in her eyes clearing, and attempted to calm her erratic breathing.

“But-“ he protested.

“ _Right now,_ ” she reiterated and slipped from beneath him to stand on shaky feet next to the bed,  hurriedly righting her clothes. Daryl carefully turned to sit on the bed, back on fire, but that was nothing compared to his dick, which was trying to pop out of his pants. “We’ll continue this when you’re healed.  _Completely_ healed,” she emphasized. “For what I want…I need you at the top of your game. In the meantime, I’m going to go take a cold shower. You should do the same,” she motioned with her eyes down his body, lingering at the rampant erection tenting his pants, tongue swiping slowly across her lower lip unconsciously.

She was halfway in the bathroom when he spoke up. “Hey, how long stitches take to heal?”

Carol’s head popped back out, a mix of regret and devilry in her crinkled eyes as she smirked at him. “Two weeks.”

_Two weeks?!_


End file.
